


If You Were Mine (Oh, How I'd Break You Down)

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's slipping. He's weak; he needs someone to protect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Were Mine (Oh, How I'd Break You Down)

Dean thinks he likes it hard. Sam's pretty damn sure about that, bottle blonde waitresses notwithstanding. He's caught Dean enough times: face against too many brick walls, pants caught around his boots, some asshole breathing on his neck and thrusting away. Dean's always grinning like it's some big joke.

Sam hates it, though. He fucking _hates_ it. He looks at Dean, and he thinks "mine". And, well, when you grow up dirt poor, you get it, you understand–what's yours is yours, and that's just fucking it. It's yours to break, and nobody gets to do that for you.

He can't stop looking at the bite mark on Dean's neck, thinking about how it's probably going to get infected because Dean doesn't give a shit.

Dean's slipping. He's weak; he needs someone to protect him. To take care of him.

Sam can't do that. Doesn't trust himself to do that.

"What the fuck is up with you, Girl, Interrupted? Dude, help me salt and burn this annoying bastard or go back to the car," his brother orders, bristling under Sam's gaze as he rests his weight against the handle of his shovel and rolls his eyes. He worms his flask from the pocket of his jeans and takes a long sip, grimacing. Holds it out to Sam.

"One of us has to drive back," Sam says. Dean makes a face and goes, "Thanks, Dad," but they both know John could have driven drunk and with one hand tied behind his back if he wanted to, probably had. Sam had tried complaining to Dean about it once, when he was twelve and still didn't quite get how Dean had worshiped John.

"Dad hasn't ever crashed," Dean had said, sounding proud, of all things. "He could be a race car driver if he wanted to, Sammy, I swear."

His brother doesn't say a word to him on the way back, and that pisses Sam off more than anything.

Dean starts whimpering in his sleep that night. Sam thinks it's nightmares until he recognizes the word: "Harder," Dean pants, back arching. "Harder, you dumb fuck, go harder. What're you– " He trails off, turning his face into his pillow, eyes still shut. Mumbles, "What're you fucking good for, what're you..."

Sam takes his blankets and sleeps in the impala.

He spends the next day training with Ruby, maybe avoidance, maybe determination, maybe some kind of fucked up revenge. Dean punishes him by going out and getting trashed, coming back with a bruise around his neck like someone had choked him. Like he'd _let_ someone choke him.

"Get into a bar fight?" Sam suggests, tone bone dry, brittle humor.

Dean smirks, could even be a leer. Hard to tell the difference, anymore. "You should see the other guy."

Sam thinks if he did, he might rip his fucking heart out of his chest.

He thinks Dean knows that, too.

\--

Honestly, Sam expects that to be it for a while. Dean's stupid, he's reckless, but he's dedicated more than he's either of those things. So he's thrown, caught off-balance, when his brother stumbles in at three the next morning bleeding, covered in bruises.

He hadn't even known Dean was gone.

"God, Dean." He's out of bed and at Dean's side in a second split, rubbing at his eyes groggily with one hand and practically holding Dean off the ground with the other. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

The grin on Dean's face is so twisted it hurts looking at it, voice hoarse and bitter as he laughs, "Just what every guy wants to hear when he comes home."

"Where were you?"

"Out waiting for the world to end," Dean says. "What've I got here for me, anyway, huh, Sammy? You and the demon bitch cozy up together while I was gone?"

Sam scowls. "Ruby wasn't even here, Dean. And there sure as hell wasn't any 'cozying'. I was—"

Dean shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He falls onto the edge of one of the beds like he just can't hold himself up any more. "I don't wanna hear about it, Sam. Just–don't, okay, man?"

Something in Sam breaks looking at him. There's a scrape on his cheek with gravel twisted into it, painfully red and swollen. Blood trickles past his temple from someplace on his scalp Sam can't see, and he's got his hand curled against his jeans like he's trying to keep a wound closed and doesn't want anyone to know about it. Sam closes his eyes presses a fist against them hard, white bursting over black.

If he doesn't take care of Dean, that's it. Because Dean sure as anything, sure as _hell_, won't do it himself.

He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes. "Get up," he says, _orders_, and Dean was looking away when he said it but that gets his attention like nothing else.

"Sure thing, Sarge," he says sarcastically, then, "What the hell, Sam?"

"You need to shut up and do what I say," Sam tells him tightly.

Dean stares at him, incredulous. "Uh, how about _no_?"

And Sam doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly he finds himself standing in front of his brother, leaning over him with his hand around his throat. Not choking him, just covering the purpling bruise there.

He expects Dean to wrench himself away, but he just goes incredibly still.

"I said shut up, Dean," Sam repeats. Dean nods, throat working around Sam's hand.

Something in Sam, something insistent and _loud_–it wants to break Dean. Squeeze until he turns blue and stops struggling. But Sam knows what that is, has that under control.

Instead, he tilts Dean's head to the side, runs a hand gently up Dean's neck, cupping his cheek, and ghosts a finger over the scrape. "What—" Dean starts, clearing his throat when it comes out a ragged whisper. "What the hell are you doing, Sam?"

"Patching you up, man," Sam replies.

He shuts his eyes again, sparks of red behind his eyes, and when he opens them, the skin beneath his fingertips is smooth again.

The demon blood howls in protest, so many voices screaming, screaming so goddamn loud inside his head.

"Sammy," Dean chokes out.

Sam clamps a hand over his mouth. His brother stares at him, green eyes bloodshot and wide. "Get up," Sam says again. This time, Dean listens, legs looking shaky as he stands.

He tells Dean to strip; he does. He peels his jeans down, wincing, the denim clinging to the slice down his thigh. Sam ignores all the noise he knows Dean can't hear and heals it. It's electric, hot and so, so bright, and Dean pants like he can feel it too.

His brother is whole again by dawn.

"Jesus," Dean says. "Jesus, Sammy." And Sam looks down at Dean's spread legs, the line of his hard cock against the fabric of his boxers, and he takes care of that too.

"Why do you want it?" he whispers to Dean later. Dean has his head on Sam's chest, face pressed into his neck, neck on display for Sam to bend and break. For him to keep safe.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean whispers back. "Just shut the fuck up."

Sam kisses him. The voices go quiet.


End file.
